


The Caged Bird Sings

by sashawire



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, F/F, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23204311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashawire/pseuds/sashawire
Summary: “A walk,” Nora says, “through the town. You can show me around.”A date,she means. Magnolia is a performer, right down to her core. Of course she knows how to pick up on the little cues, little changes in people’s expressions and posture.Magnolia says yes....In which Magnolia wants the one thing she can’t have.
Relationships: Magnolia/Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	The Caged Bird Sings

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the poem “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou.
> 
> I had the, ah, _encounter_ with Magnolia in FO4, got my heart broken, and wrote this fic in a haze of feelings, all in one night. I then let this fic sit in my drafts for a couple of days because I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with it. Then I figured, eh, the Magnora AO3 tag is pretty sparse, might as well. So here!
> 
> My tumblr is @brightwritesstuff :)

Magnolia has always known she was made to perform.

She can’t remember anything of the Institute. She’s never spoken to another synth, she never dared, but she doubts they can remember anything either.

But she’s drawn to performance like bloodbugs to a corpse. It takes up half of her thoughts at all times, the desire to stand at the centre of the room and have all eyes on her, to be the heart of the crowd.

She wears the dress, that red, sequined dress, and then they can’t look away. She’ll always stand out, a smear of ruby red set against the blues and greys of the Third Rail. Like one of those disco-balls from the Pre-War eras.

Of course, sometimes patrons get a bit handsy, having had too much to drink and thinking of her as some talking doll, but Charlie always sets them straight  _ real _ quick. Can’t have the jewel of the town up and walk away anytime soon. Being the only bar in Goodneighbor can only get you so far.

(On some levels, Magnolia wonders if she  _ is  _ just a talking doll. Really, what makes her any different from those old plastic girls with the speakers built in?)

On all levels except legally, she’s married to the stage.

But.

But. There’s just one girl who’s wormed her way under Magnolia’s artificial skin.

Nora is something new, something strange. She’s a rush of fresh air in this radiation-soup rat-hole of a town. Everyone’s talking about her,  _ have you met the newcomer? Odd one, isn’t she? _

When she approaches Magnolia on her break, one smoky evening, Magnolia doesn’t know whether to be nervous or excited.

The newcomer’s, Nora’s, eyes are sharp, even in the hazy lights of the Third Rail. There’s something behind them, this jaded wisdom, and Magnolia  _ knows. _ The girl’s youth might be fooling a lot of people, but Magnolia can tell that she understands the way the world works just the same as the rest of them.

And then she walks right up to Magnolia and just starts asking about her music. The big twist?

Nora is sweet, just as much as she is snarky. She’s silver-tongued and she’s spilling with sardonic quips and she takes no shit from anybody, and Magnolia is so. Endlessly. Charmed.

Magnolia has met plenty of people in her day. Some bots, some mercenaries, some ghouls. Mostly drifters, a blur of faces in radroach-bitten clothes and Jet-fogged eyes.

She hasn’t been everywhere, hasn’t even been to Diamond City for fuck’s sake, but she can tell you with no doubt in her inhuman mind that there is no one in this whole wide world quite like Nora.

There’s a curl, just one, at the end of Nora’s hair. When she moves her head too suddenly, it bounces off her chin and wobbles around for a bit.

Magnolia wants to reach out and touch it. To curl it around her finger, to brush her hands through Nora’s hair. She’s never thought about anyone like that before.

Magnolia is a synth. She’s made of plastic and wires, she shouldn’t be thinking of anyone like that at all.

Yes, she’s had her rolls in the hay, haven’t we all, but there’s something different in her gut when she looks at Nora. She wants to tuck Nora’s hair away from her face and learn the shape of her jaw by heart and hear the name Magnolia come out of Nora’s mouth in so many ways in so many situations.

She wants Nora beyond a physical way, in a way that  _ synths shouldn’t want people. _

Nora tilts her head just a little, and Magnolia can’t help but think that the awful, garish neon lights that fill the Third Rail, that suddenly those colours are stunning when glowing in Nora’s hair.

Synths shouldn’t think this way about people.

Then Nora asks her out. “A walk,” she says, “through the town. You can show me around.”

_ A date, _ she means. Magnolia is a performer, right down to her core. Of course she knows how to pick up on the little cues, little changes in people’s expressions and posture.

Magnolia says yes.

She knows she shouldn’t. She’s  _ married to the stage, _ that’s been her excuse for years, but this time… this time she just accepts.

It’s very rare that Magnolia longs for something. Usually, her craving to be blinded by the spotlights drowns out any other desires. But right now, Magnolia wants and wants and  _ wants. _ There’s nothing she needs  _ so desperately _ as to take Nora’s hand and follow her to the ends of the earth and everything that comes in between.

Because Nora has entered this town as a storm of witty commentary and husky laughter and sharp, sharp eyes. The idea of letting her go without a fight, of returning to her pre-Nora life of drifters and booze, makes Magnolia want to throw up, and she can’t even  _ do  _ that.

So she takes Nora by the hand. Their hands fumble a bit in fitting together. Magnolia’s are thin and knobbly, whereas Nora’s are rough, strong. These hands have seen hell and lived to tell the tale. Magnolia wants to spend hours, days, running her fingertips over every scar and callous buried in Nora’s hands, trying to figure out the history behind each and every one.

In the meantime, it’s all she can do to squeeze their tangled hands and  _ wish. _

They wander Goodneighbor. It’s not like there’s much to see; the place is just as swarming with outcasts and freaks at night as it is in the day.

But there’s a newness to it. When they watch a drifter accidentally slice open his hand in an attempt to juggle knives, Nora makes a droll comment beside her and Magnolia has to shove her bottom lip between her teeth to force the cackles down.

Hand-in-hand, it’s like seeing the world through someone else’s eyes. The eyes of someone who isn’t a synth destined to be lonely, someone who’s able to go after the things she wants oh-so-badly.

It’s like seeing the world through the eyes of someone who’s allowed to be with Nora.

And Magnolia is so  _ happy. _ It’s the lightest feeling in the world, to just be able to  _ exist  _ beside Nora, to fit their hands together and bounce banter back and forth and let their guffaws ring down the street.

Nora turns to look at her, and Magnolia looks back. There are a hundred different lights reflected in Nora’s eyes, and she’s so  _ close. _

Every time Magnolia has heard some drunkard lament about love back at the bar, the object of their affection has always seemed so distant. Like they’re yearning for a statue, cold and completely out of reach.

But Nora, Nora is the opposite of untouchable. She’s right  _ there, _ only a couple of inches away and smelling of sweat and metal. Her hair falls around her face in a way that’s oddly sweet compared to the rest of her demeanor and Magnolia just can’t  _ help _ it, she lurches upwards and pushes her lips into Nora’s.

Nora stumbles back against the dirty street wall, and Magnolia moves with her, wondering if she’s just made a terrible mistake.

But then Nora is wrapping her arms around Magnolia and there’s no room for the thought of mistakes because she’s too busy being pulled deeper into the endlessly enchanting whirlpool that is Nora, Nora,  _ Nora. _

There’s tongue and hands and sounds coming out of Nora’s mouth that Magnolia wants to lock away into her memory  _ forever, _ but a lot of it is lost to the haze of desire.

The next thing Magnolia remembers clearly, they’re in a room at Hotel Rexford, and Nora is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking up at her.

Nora’s hair is sticking out at odd angles and her cheeks and lips are flushed and her shirt is half unbuttoned, slipping off one shoulder and giving a glimpse of breast.

The air is heady with both of their rushed breathing, and Magnolia knows that she really shouldn’t do this. She really,  _ really _ shouldn’t do this.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Nora asks, eyes still sharp but… but the way she’s looking at Magnolia makes Magnolia think of the day she left the Institute, the first time she ever saw the sky. Wonder.

“Yep.” Magnolia pushes Nora down on the bed and presses their mouths together, and gives in to her want.

*

Nora falls asleep sometime after they finish, and Magnolia is still entranced.

There’s a burn scar on the upper left of her forehead, a starburst of thickened tissue. Magnolia touches the rough, raised edges gently, and she wonders what happened.

There are stories taking up every stretch of skin on Nora’s body. Long slice marks, round bullet holes, messy stitches. Magnolia wants to hear every single story, wants to unwrap every untold mystery that shrouds Nora.

Magnolia brushes her fingertips along the bridge of Nora’s nose and cheekbones. She has dark freckles, almost mistaken for moles, scattered wildly. 

Magnolia can’t imagine anything Nora does being  _ mild. _

Nora sleeps. Magnolia wants.

*

Nora wakes up. Somewhere in between this point and her falling asleep, Magnolia comes to a conclusion.

Magnolia won’t, can’t leave the stage behind. It’s what she was made for, to feel the spotlights filling her eyes and to hear the rumble of her own voice into the microphone. Performance is the phantom blood that runs through her veins. She can’t go with Nora.

At the same time, Nora can’t stay with her. Nora isn’t meant to be tamed, to be tied down. She’s an adventurer to the core, looking to meet new people and explore new places.

(And there’s something about her. Magnolia’s spent so much time staring into Nora’s eyes, it would be impossible for her  _ not _ to notice. Nora is searching for something, something important, and whatever it is, Magnolia can’t give it to her.)

That’s what they are, the two of them. One a free bird who won’t be locked away, the other a songbird who won’t leave her cage. There’s nothing to be done about it.

_ I just can’t get too attached, _ Magnolia tells Nora, even though she knows that it’s too late for that.

Nora stares at her with blank eyes. They don’t suit her. Nora’s eyes are quick and razor-like, not dazed and sad.

Nora says her name just once before she leaves. “Magnolia,” she says, so softly.  _ Stay, _ she doesn’t say, doesn’t need to say,  _ can’t _ say.

Magnolia doesn’t look at her as she leaves.  _ I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. _

It’s still dark out as she shuffles down the streets of Goodneighbor. Magnolia can still hear Nora’s laughter, throaty and unabashed, echoing off the walls. She wonders if she’ll ever stop.

*

Magnolia keeps her word. She thinks of Nora when she's up there, singing into the mic and feeling the bar’s gazes on her. She thinks of Nora's eyes, quick and discerning, a flash of light in this foggy, foggy town.

It’s not always. After a while, Magnolia can go up there and not think of Nora once, only feeling the burn of the spotlight and the red glow of her dress reflecting onto the walls.

But when the night grows deeper and the patrons are more asleep than awake, sometimes Magnolia will let her mind drift back to Nora. The fight-roughened hands, the time-roughened smile. Just for a little while. Just to keep her going.

Occasionally, Nora visits the bar.

Not often, by any standards. Nora always seems to be busy with something, be it clearing out raiders under Hancock’s orders or hunting down missing persons or whatever else she can never say too much about.

She always has someone with her. A dog, a synth with glowing eyes, old Rob McCready, or the famous Diamond City reporter who flushes whenever she looks at Magnolia.

It makes sense. Nora’s not a solitary kind of person.

Nora’s visits to the bar are always different to the Nora-less nights. It’s not just her back-and-forth banter with Charlie, or Magnolia pretending she can’t physically feel Nora’s clear, cutting gaze while on-stage.

There’s an aura to the place when Nora’s there. People drink up her stories of distant lands and forgotten times like an addict who’s been dry for a month. No matter how much time Nora spends in Goodneighbor, she’ll always be something new, something fresh in this stagnant town.

Sometimes she’ll catch Magnolia while she’s on her break. They’ll exchange a few words, almost stilted, almost not, and Nora will ask how Goodneighbor’s been without her, how Magnolia’s been.

Magnolia responds vaguely, never saying  _ This place is a zombie town without you, _ and she shut down any flirting attempts with almost-stilted certainty.

Magnolia never asks if she found what she was looking for, and Nora never offers.

They drink together and they smile, but they don’t laugh, and Magnolia goes back to the stage and Nora goes back to her journey.

“Come to Sanctuary,” Nora says once. “There’s always a place for you there.”

Magnolia just tips the rest of her drink down her throat and responds, “Oh, this birdie is a little too old to leave the nest.”

Nora never mentions it again after that. She watches Magnolia’s performance and then she leaves, into the unknown with her companion in tow.

Magnolia sings for the remaining onlookers. She thinks of Nora.


End file.
